Grit, left to himself, was subjected to the hardest trial, that of waiting for deliverance, and not knowing whether the expected help would come.

"At any rate I have done the best I could," he said to himself. "Daniel is the best messenger I could obtain. He doesn't seem to be more than half-witted, but he ought to be intelligent enough to find Mr. Baker and deliver my note."

The subterranean apartment, with its utter destitution of furniture, furnished absolutely no resources against ennui. Grit was fond of reading, and in spite of his anxiety might in an interesting paper or book have forgotten his captivity, but there was nothing to read, and even if there had been, it was too dark to avail himself of it.

"I suppose I sha'n't see Daniel till noon," he reflected. "Till then I am left in suspense."

He sat down in a corner and began to think over his position and future prospects. He was not wholly cast down, for he refused to believe that he was in any real peril. In fact, though a captive, he had never felt more hopeful, or more self-reliant than now. But he was an active boy, and accustomed to exercise, and he grew tired of sitting down.

"I will walk a little," he decided, and proceeded to pace up and down his limited apartment.

Then it occurred to him to ascertain the dimensions of the room, by pacing.

As he did so, he ran his hand along the side wall. A most remarkable thing occurred. A door flew open, which had appeared like the rest of the wall, and a narrow passageway was revealed, leading Grit could not tell where.

"I must have touched some spring," he thought. "This house is a regular trap. I wonder where this passageway leads?"

Grit stooped down, for the passage was but about four feet in height, and tried to peer through the darkness. But he could see nothing.

"Shall I explore it?" he thought.

He hesitated a moment, not knowing whether it would be prudent, but finally curiosity overruled prudence, and he decided to do so.

Stooping over, he felt his way for possibly fifty feet, when he came to a solid wall. Here seemed to be the end of the passage.

He began to feel slowly with his hand, when another small door, only about twelve inches square, flew open, and he looked through it into another subterranean apartment. It did not appear to be occupied, but on a small wooden table was a candle, and by the light of the candle Grit could see a variety of articles, including several trunks, one open, revealing its contents to be plate.

"What does it mean?" thought Grit.

Then the thought came to him, for, though he was a country boy, his wits had been sharpened by his recent experiences. "It must be a storehouse of stolen goods."

This supposition seemed in harmony with the character of the man who had lured him here, and now held him captive.

"If I were only outside," thought Grit, "I would tell Mr. Baker of this. The police ought to know it."

Just then he heard his name called, and, turning suddenly, distinguished by the faint light which the candle threw into the passage the stern and menacing countenance of Colonel Johnson.

"Come out here, boy!" he called, in an angry tone. "I have an account to settle with you."